


Sunday

by opalescentheart



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9950060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentheart/pseuds/opalescentheart
Summary: A glimpse into Oswald's childhood and how the importance of a particular day remains throughout his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Kris + Jen for helping me! <3

Sunday has always been Oswald’s favorite day.

On Sunday there is no school and on Sunday his mother doesn’t have to go to work.

It’s just the two of them, the whole day.

So, like every Sunday, Oswald’s already lying awake in bed when the first sunrays peek through the curtains of his room. It’s getting hot under his two thick blankets - his mom always makes sure he’s never cold - but Oswald knows better, he _does_ get sick quite often after all.

Eventually, he just can’t wait much longer. Shoving the heavy blankets off his small body, Oswald bounces a few times on his bed, ignoring the agonizing squeaking noises his saggy mattress gives.

On Sundays, nothing can bother him.

After growing bored of his little exercise, Oswald jumps off his bed and lands onto the carpeted floor with a small thud. Outside his window, birds have begun to chirp loudly, making Oswald’s heart swell.

He’s always liked birds. In fact, he envies them.

Because birds can fly away.

And on every other day, that isn’t Sunday, Oswald wishes he could fly away, too.

There’s a small quiver in his stomach at the thought of these other days that aren’t Sundays. Like a Monday, which is what he has to face again tomorrow.

No.

Oswald has one rule for Sundays: no bad thoughts. He’s even forbidden his mom to have them, let alone voice them.

Sunday was just for the two of them. Their happy day.

After tugging at his heavy curtains and letting warm sunlight flood his room, Oswald decides it’s time to wake his mother. He thinks, since it’s the only good day in the week, not a single moment should go to waste.

His mom’s bedroom is on the opposite end of a long hallway and as he runs down it, his small bare feet tap loudly against the scuffed wooden floorboards. Oswald knows he should’ve put on his slippers first. He’s caught splinters from the worn-out wood before.

Thankfully, not so today, and he can burst into his mother’s bedroom unscarred.

“Happy Sunday, mommy!” his voice is almost shrill from sheer excitement.

On her bed, Gertrude lets out a soft groan.

“Mommy, get up! Get up, get up!” Oswald chants, giggling as his mom pulls the blanket over her face.

But there’s no chance, Oswald makes sure of that as he jumps onto the bed and lets himself flop down right next to her.

“Mommy, it’s time! It’s Sunday!” he exclaims, tugging on her blanket which only emits another groan from her.

Finally, she pulls the blanket off her face and opens her eyes. As she turns her head to look at Oswald next to her, she gives him a tired but incredibly warm smile.

Oswald beams back at her, flashing her a wide grin that shows his recently acquired tooth gap.

“Can we make pancakes for breakfast? _Please_?” As if wanting to support the suggestion, his stomach gives a loud grumble at that.

Chuckling, Gertrude leans in and presses a tender kiss against Oswald’s forehead. “Of course. Anything for my sweet baby.”

**

Oswald gets to mix the ingredients in a huge bowl, his mother's hand gently guiding his.

“Pancakes are my favorite food in the world, mommy. Yours too, right?” Oswald asks, the tip of his nose and cheeks covered in a fine layer of white flour.

Gertrude lets out a feigned gasp, eyes growing wide. “Your _favorite_ food you say?” Oswald watches her with equally wide eyes now as his mother leans in closer, voice barely a whisper now. “What about... _peanut butter_?”

Oswald scrunches his face, contemplating his mother’s question for a second before his body is suddenly gripped by both of her hands. Before he can stop himself, Oswald bursts into a fit of giggles as he’s tickled mercilessly.

“Mo-Mommy, stop!” he begs, cheeks turning pink from laughing so hard. All efforts to unwind himself from his mother’s arms are helpless. “Okay- okay, peanut butt-aa- _Mom_!”

**

After breakfast, Oswald receives his weekly piano lessons. He doubts they’re real lessons though. Because lessons are _never_ fun, at least they aren’t in school.

His mother starts by playing a small tune, her body swaying in rhythm as she lets her fingers dance over the keys with so much ease, Oswald feels intimidated.

When it’s his turn, he’s almost frightened to push down onto the keys too hard. The piano is his mother’s most prized possession after all, something she’d been able to acquire from an estate sale years ago.

“Your little fingers are too stiff, sweetheart,” she gently scolds him, clicking her tongue before taking her son’s small hands into hers, squeezing them affectionately before pressing kisses on each one.

“Do it like me,” she says, smiling warmly as he begins to wriggle her fingers in front of him. “You need to loosen them up. They need to,” she sighs dramatically, “ _dance_.”

Oswald looks at her with wide eyes, nodding his head before wriggling his own fingers. A small grin tugs on his lips. “They really do dance,” he says, now fully smiling.

**

In the afternoon, Oswald has settled into the corner of a windowsill, a book propped up in his lap: a collection of old fairy-tales. Even though he knows the stories by heart at this point, he still loves skimming through it, if just for the pictures alone.

Most of the time he prefers the world of fairy-tales to reality. Especially on days that aren't Sunday.

A few feet away from him, his mother is sitting in a big comfortable armchair, humming a tune Oswald recognizes as his favorite lullaby.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he just soaks up the atmosphere. Peaceful, and with no one to disturb them.

He wishes Sundays would last forever.

**

The sun still hasn’t risen when a hunched dark figure strolls across the lonely graveyard. There’s the occasional chirping of a few birds, announcing the upcoming start of a new day.

Oswald has grown into an old man, weary of everything - especially life. Gripping his cane with leather-gloved hands, he drags his tired feet across the muddy damp ground.

Finally, he reaches his destination. The grave of his mother. With a pained groan, Oswald kneels down, not bothering about getting dirt on his pants.

With much care, he replaces the flowers he’d laid down just last week, with fresh ones - lilies, of course. Mother’s favorites.

Hauling himself back up to his feet, Oswald sighs, chest clenching painfully even after all these years.

It’s the one loss, he’s _never_ gotten over. No matter how much of his humanity he’d shed after truly becoming _The Penguin_ of Gotham City.

Still, every week on this particular day, Oswald gets up in the early morning hours -- long enough before dawn -- and walks up to the small cemetery, despite the excruciating pain in his leg that had gotten far worse with age.

He could just order to be driven up here, but Oswald prefers it this way. Just him and his mother, alone and with no one to disturb them.

Placing his leather-gloved fingers onto the rough edge of the tombstone, Oswald swallows down the lump forming in his throat.

“Happy Sunday, Mother,” he whispers, a single tear rolling down his cheek.


End file.
